


Reality is What you Percieve

by Imnothere16



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Altered Mental States, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Cutting, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gil Arroyo Acting as Malcolm Bright's Parental Figure, Gil Arroyo is Malcolm Bright's Parent, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Prodigal Son (TV 2019), M/M, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Male Protagonist, Manic Episode, Medication, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, My First Work in This Fandom, Night Terrors, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Protective Gil Arroyo, Relationship(s), Self-Harm, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Teenager Malcolm Bright, Triggers, Whump, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:35:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imnothere16/pseuds/Imnothere16
Summary: Malcolm Bright is desperately trying to escape his past, but his father isn't letting him do that. His mother is worried sick about him, but he keeps falsely reassuring her. His sister, Ainsley, has never seen her brother like this. So lost. So . . . out of place. He always fit in no matter where he was. Even if he didn't want or need to. But he's slowly slipping, his demeanor shifting, and his father just keeps on smiling.What would happen if Martin really knew how much he was effecting his son?Would he stay away? Or would he want to help even more now that he knows the state he's put his son in?You'll just have to read it.(sorry I am horrible at descriptions) (make sure you read the notes up top for trigger warnings)
Relationships: Ainsley Whitly & Jessica Whitly, Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & Edrisa Tanaka, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Sunshine the Bird, Malcolm Bright/JT Tarmel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	1. You Don't Deserve Me

I don't know what I'm doing here. Its right. But I feel wrong. I left him . . . I left him alone to rethink his actions. What he said to me. What he did to me. I can't seem to wrap my head around the fact that I still miss him despite everything he has done. I killed him in my heart, but not in my mind. He's always there, talking to me, telling me things I don't want to hear. I feel as if I can't ever escape him, but there is a very small part of me that has a need to see him. To see how he's operating in a place like this, if he's coping right. But, its none of my business now, even though to him, that's everything he wants. He needs someone to check on him, to show him the world outside his barred windows. I thought that I could be able to do this. I thought that I could just erase him from my life again. It didn't happen, it couldn't happen. For god's sake, he's my father. But he killed all of those people, and he didn't think of the consequences. The consequences of his job, of his life, of his reputation . . . of his family. 

"Malcolm, my dear boy! It is so good to see you."

For a moment, looking at his genuine smile from the sight of me, made my stomach twist in agony because god, did I miss seeing that. But the reality of the situation hit me at full force, and flashes of victims and the girl in the box overtook that nostalgia I felt, making my hand tremble. He looked down at it, and frowned. I clenched it into a fist and breathed deeply through my nose. 

"Martin." I replied, "I . . . I need your opinion." His eyes widened, lighting up like a Christmas tree. He smiled at me like that was the best news he's ever received. 

"Please . . . call me Dad! Now . . . Is this opinion for a case!?" He asked exuberantly. I nodded in response. Looking down shamefully, not for him, but for me needing him.

"Oh! That's so nice of you to think of me in the light of a homicide. It is my specialty of course." He paused for a moment, after being baffled. "Its so good to be needed again, especially by you Malcolm!" What I needed to do was get out of here. I really, really couldn't stand being in the same room with him. He makes me think of all the good times we had as a family. Going on vacation, redecorating the house every few months because of his need for change, all of the fascinating things he taught me about the human anatomy, having baby Ainsley and teaching me how to be the best big brother I could be.

I shook my head quickly, ridding my mind of those thoughts . . . for now.  
"There's a killer who's motive is illusive. He doesn't have the same patterns. Never the same victim, always different ages and race. He's practically a shadow in the FBI and he leaves no trace of him behind. Except the victim of course." I just gave it out. No hesitation or rabbit trails. I just needed to catch this killer. 

"Well . . . you're never gonna find him." He says suddenly. I was puzzled, that's never been an option, not finding them. " . . . If he's any good that is."

Irritated, I replied. "And why is that Dr. Whitly?" 

"This character . . . he has an overwhelming fantasy life. He plays with different scenarios like you would when playing with your toys. Different outcomes. Different stories. He doesn't want them to be the same because he gets bored very easily. He sounds alone. Terrified even if he changes his patterns like that. Maybe he was a protege. A taught killer, someone he follows. But different than a copycat. He's been shown the way, but now he has his own unique way of destruction."

"He sounds young then if he's a protégé-"

"No, no . . . He's an old-timer at this game. He knows how to play well. He's been practicing for a very long time. It's only now that he wants his remembrance. Because of the very fact of him being old. He wants to finally make his mark after all this time."

"Wait are you saying that he just wants his fifteen minutes of fame? That's why he's doing this-"

"No! Well, yes, but it's different than that. He's killed before. Way, way before. But like I said, it's now that he's finally showing you what he is capable of. It's now that he has the confidence of his mentor, that he is able to show off his work." 

"Okay so . . . from a profiler's point of view. What would he look like?" This was wrong. This is my job. This is my part in the story, but being in here, listening to him list of things about this killer like it was obvious, it just . . . reminded me of me. Selfishly enough, I wanted more.

"Well . . . I'd say . . ." He blew a raspberry, " Probably late 50's. He has expectations for himself, so he's well dressed but not too well dressed to be suspicious, but just enough to pass the social cue. He's able to keep a social life, work life and possibly even family life all the while killing his victims." Sounds familiar. "I honestly believe this could be a social worker, or even a therapist."

"Wait, why do you say that?"

"I've read about the case, some of his victims being as young as twelve. But he doesn't sexually abuse them. I believe he makes them trust him, just enough to lure them in, and then he snatches them up."

"So I'm looking for a man in his late fifties, social worker and or therapist, casual attire, what's his race? His education like?" Martin looked conflicted for a moment. 

"That, you're on your own with, and that's your job to find out . . . and because of his motive. It's not guessable. He has different patterns like you've said. He actually . . . sounds like . . . a friend of mine. Kind of a past colleague of sorts." His voice changed, realizing something. 

"Martin . . . if there's something you're not telling me. I really would like to know . . . My precinct would like to know." He shifted from foot to foot, thinking about my words.  
This was gonna be harder than I thought. I opened my mouth to speak, but an idea came to me.

"Please . . . Dad." It took everything in me to not start breaking down just then. He looked so surprised, and I couldn't blame him. I think the only time I've ever said that was when I was trying to call out to to him because of the girl . . . in the box. 

"You . . . might want to go through St. Avery Children's Social employee history. You might find him in there." I turned around and motioned for the guard, the door buzzed, and I cracked it open but before I could go, I heard Martin inhale heavily. So I turned around . . .  
To see him. 

Crying. 

I had never once in my lifetime, seen my father cry. He looked so happy, yet so, so broken all the same. Pity settles into my pores, but I couldn't help it. He seemed so . . . remorseful.  
"You know . . . there are times where I wish that I didn't do what I did so I could still see all of you. To still be a family. To still feel . . . loved." 

"Why didn't you think about that when you were killing them?" I couldn't help but blurt that out. It just didn't make sense to me. Why feel regretful now? After all these years.

"Because I was selfish. I had indescribable needs, and I thought that I was so good at what I was doing, that I'd never get caught but then you . . . you then told the world basically." He suddenly looks like something dawned on him. "You . . . You ruined this. You ruined what I had going. You ruined my job. You ruined my reputation. You ruined the love your mother had for me. You ruined the relationship I was going to build with my baby girl . . . you just . . . ruined it all."

"What was I supposed to do?! Just let you continue killing people?!" I couldn't believe he would make me feel guilty about something like that.

"YES! YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO LET ME LIVE! I WOULD HAVE BEEN A GREAT FATHER WHILE BEING THE MOST NOTORIOUS KILLER THERE EVER WAS! WHY DID YOU RUIN THAT FOR ME!?"

I was absolutely speechless. I couldn't believe he was actually saying all of this to me. Like if I had just let him keep killing, it would've been better for all of us. 

Maybe it could have been. 

But why should he be allowed? 

"Who are you to think you deserve a family after what you've done? Do you think just because I'm your son that I would cover for you?! That I would let you continue to hurt the patients you were supposed to help!? You're sick. You're fucking insane. I never should've come here." He suddenly ran towards me, and I flinch harshly backwards as the sound of the chains were louder than they ever had been.

"Well Malcolm . . . like father," He looked down at me. "Like son." I quickly turned around and walked out.

"You'll be back! You always come back!" I couldn't hold in the tears I had then. 

Because he's right. 

I always come back.


	2. No Pressure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for alcohol use and self-harm

I couldn't fucking believe him. What was new? Thinking back I would've never thought my father was capable of such atrocities. Yet . . . he's in a cage, guilty of 23 murders and counting. But God, does it haunt me to think of how much I really didn't know about him. He was so perfect when I was younger. He always acting as if nothing was ever wrong. He never yelled, or screamed. He never hit, or punished me. He was always so understanding and loving. He was with me all of the time. There was not one childhood memory that didn't have my father in it, until after his arrest of course. He was here for the basics . . . My first time talking, walking, my first time riding a bike. Now, I just think about everything he's missed because of his actions. Graduating middle school, learning to drive, graduating high school, my first girlfriend, discovering my sexuality, then my first boyfriend, me graduating at Quantico and getting my gun and badge. And then he missed me getting fired because I have his 'tendencies'? I mean what the hell kind of statement is that? My father was never impulsive, he always acted with precision and thought about what he was going to do before doing it. Quite the opposite from me.

I put my head in my hands, this argument in my head was starting to tire me down. I was just trying to forget about what he said to me in that cell. But for some fucked up reason, I felt bad about it. For not letting him just keep doing what he was doing, because there was a large part of me that just wanted him back in my life, that needed him. But I trampled it every single time I thought about each individual he's murdered. Every name, every family, everything they've ever did or accomplished, wasted because of my father. The Surgeon. The person you're supposed to naturally trust. He took advantage of that. 

"God Dammit. Shut up, already." I'm so tired. So, so tired. But I shook my head rapidly, not wanting to fall into a deep night terror again. I was shirtless on my bed because of the one I previously had. I was sweating so much because of the nightmare, but holding next to me in a wet, sweaty grip was a strong bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey. I know I shouldn't be drinking while on my medication, and my first thought was to throw it out but its all that makes me feel good anymore. Solving the case and crime were no longer enough. I used to lose sleep over these cases, now . . . I just lose sleep. There's no joy in anything I do without having to self medicate. I've stopped answering my phone a while ago. I've just been letting it ring. I haven't been out of this house in at least a week. 

Or wait . . . was it two weeks now?   
I've lost track already. I've stopped counting.  
But it feels good to not worry about it.   
They did say to get on vacation, right?

Although . . . I can't help but think though, how many killers are getting away with what they're doing just because I'm wallowing in my self-pity. But . . . that isn't my responsibility. 

That's selfish.

I know! But why can't they be as good as I am at this. Why am I the one they always have to rely on? I'm so tired of being the one to figure out something, only to almost get literally killed by the end of it. Yes its worth it, but Jesus Christ I really hate being the person that chooses to be in the killers path, but I guess I'm the only one who knows his or her next step. 

I took a large gulp of the booze, and suddenly, without any warning, I started to cry. Like full on, wet, gross sobs. It's been weeks since I just let myself release any kind of emotion I've been holding in. But this was too much, this feeling feels too much. I felt like I can't escape my own fucking head, even in my dreams. He's always there, or his victims are. Or my demons and irrational fears. Its never ending.

"Why am I holding your guilt!? Fuck!" After swallowing the last of the alcohol, I just threw it across the bedroom without thinking about it beforehand, the sound of the crashing bottle breaking unexpectedly sent me into a full blown panic attack. It was like everything was way too loud all of a sudden. The lights in this room, god they were so . . . fucking . . . bright. Every movement, every sound, every touch my body experienced was like a semi-truck crashing into me. And I can't even move out of its way so its crushing me, hitting me at full force. It was like nothing I've ever experienced.

Jesus Christ I didn't think throwing a bottle would send me reeling, what the fuck?

"Shit." I slid down the side of my bed and practically military crawled over to where the glass was. When I got enough courage to sit up, I cried out loudly, picking up the largest shard, and pressing it into my palm. The glass felt like it weighed so much in my hands, But me pressing down hard was making the blood ooze around the glass more, made me feel so much lighter. As always, it still wasn't enough. It never was. I couldn't feel it, I needed to feel it to get out this fucking head space. I looked down at my wrists and immediately shut my eyes as I moved the glass towards it. The shard felt like it was setting fire to my skin when I slashed it across my arm. It was like there was an itch on every small part of my arm, and as each were scratched, a new area itched. So I kept going. Just doing it over, and over again. Hoping, praying, crying that this feeling would just go away and never come back. 

Why does it have to be like this to calm down? 

Just to have a little peace?

Suddenly my breathing halts as I hear my door from the outside being opened. I ran to get a towel in the kitchen and pressed hard into my arm. Trying to stop the flow of blood that continuously oozed out of my body. I prayed to anyone who could hear that it was just the mailman. But I couldn't stop crying, because I knew in my mind that once I start, it takes a few hours to really settle. I let out a gut wrenching sob when I heard the familiar voice of my mother calling out to me. I stood up quickly holding my bleeding arm very close to my shirtless body. 

"Mother wait! I'm cha-" I started to come up with a dumb excuse but . . . it was too late. She stood in front of me now, with a long white jacket wrapped around her waist and black slacks. Her mouth was open at the sight of me, and I couldn't help but to push my fingers deep into my arm. This was so humiliating. Her 30 year old son was self harming again. But she couldn't know that.

I had to make sure she didn't know.

"Malcolm . . . " She started.

"Don't!" I hiccupped in response. "Don't do that. I broke a bottle and I wasn't in control of my body." I hated lying to her, but disappointing her was even worse. "I had a nightmare and I didn't do this." The worry in her forehead decreased but she still looked heavily concerned. 

"Why didn't you call? You weren't answering any of Gil's calls either so he sent me here . . . to check on you because he's pretty busy with a case, because he doesn't have his profiler there to help him solve it." She sighed as I began putting on a new shirt.   
She saw my tears, and pushed forward. But I stepped back quickly. Not wanting her to see, not wanting her to know. "Malcolm . . . tell your mother what's wrong." I had to get out of this. I'll probably say something I'd regret.

"Actually, I'm thinking of going back to work." I moved away from my mother, but I couldn't help practically wobbling to the bathroom though. A natural response to mixing alcohol with narcotics.

"Malcolm . . . are you drunk?" She didn't even try to hide her anger now. "Its fucking noon!"

"I heard that it's five o'clock somewhere, mother!" I replied, even though that was probably the wrong thing to say. I grabbed the ace bandages out of the bathroom cabinet and had a bit of difficulty putting the wrap around my arm but I got it done. I got another smaller one and wrapped it around my hand, just as I did when I broke the glass cup in my therapist's office. 

"Well can't argue with that but . . . Malcolm . . . I'm worried. Maybe we should see about that doctor we talked about. You don't need to see your childhood therapist anymore and he'll focus more on your current life rather than your trauma."

"Mom. I really have to go. Gil needs me, okay?" I didn't let her say anything after that. I just needed to get out. But as soon as I stepped outside. I immediately regretted it. My sensory overload wasn't done with me just yet. 

God, can I get a break already?


	3. Grimace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW Implied/referenced self-harm

"Gil." I greeted. He looked at me glaringly.

"Malcolm? What are you doing here? I thought you were on vacation." I swallowed down the hurt that built up from his greeting. It felt like he didn't need me here.

"Sorry, I know I'm not wanted, but I have to occupy myself with work. Can . . . " I looked around and saw the team discussing something at the table, and I looked away quickly. "Can we talk in your office? Please?" Gil looked at me weirdly, like he knew something was up. But as always, he just didn't know what. I honestly felt bad for how much I keep from him, he's helped me blossom as a child when my father couldn't, it was just now, I felt like I couldn't talk to him about that. I felt like I was too old to seek advice out, like I should know how to deal with this by now its been years--

"Yeah, of course." He turns in the direction of his door, and I follow. Trying so hard not to make any eye contact with the team members, because for some reason, a part of me is ashamed to see them after what I did to myself. But I guess, the universe wasn't on my side today because I caught the slightest glimpse of someone, and immediately they came my way.

"Hey! Malcolm! We missed you! I missed you! Oh . . . dear, you don't look so good but that's okay! Are you okay?" Edrisa shot up when I walked past her, not that I didn't love seeing her, but I really didn't have an automated response ready for this conversation yet. 

"Oh I missed you too and honestly . . . I don't know but I'll talk to you later, okay?" I tried to smile, but it kind of felt like a grimace. Nonetheless, she smiled back with her gorgeous smile and nodded back at me. 

With that, I turned towards Gil's office and sauntered forward, trying not to think about how obvious my feelings are on my face apparently. Or maybe Edrisa is just observant, way too observant I guess. Instead of over-analyzing, I just shook the thought off, and prepared myself for the conversation waiting to come.   
"Okay kid, before you start, I wanna ask you a few things." Immediately, like a jolt of lightening, anxiety hit my chest. I swallowed hard and laced my fingers together as a self soothing coping method as I sat on his couch. 

"Okay." He looked at me like he was trying to be subtle about his approach. 

"Have you been sleeping? Are you eating anything these days? And what does your mother think of this?" A surge of anger went through me at the mention of my mother. 

"Yes, I've been sleeping. Eating normally, and my mother has no authority over her 30 year old son's actions so she has nothing to do with this conversation." I sighed out, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. I felt a small prickle sensation on my arms.

"Actual sleeping? Or - having a nightmare and then staying up - sleeping? And I know damn well you're not eating normally, you said it too nonchalant, gave it away instantly. And the only reason why your mother gets involved in these conversations is because she worries about you just as much as I do." The prickle sensation became more prominent. 

"Why do you ask these questions if you already know the answers to them? Look, I just need something to occupy my mind and that just so happens to be my work." Gil looked so stuck but so willing to give in. I stood up, going over to him, and put my hand on his shoulder to make him really look at me.

"I know I can be a bit of a pain sometimes? God do I know it, but I also know that I help you far better than any other consultants you've ever had in your precinct. I'm good at my job, so why can't I just . . . do it?" I felt exasperated, like I was fired, and I was begging for my job back. This felt humiliating but necessary. He was looking at me guiltily though, like I was some sad beat down mutt waiting for someone to take pity on him, but it also felt like for the first time in 10 years, he was really looking at me. Like . . . really looking. I felt open, exposed, and uncomfortable because of it, but also very satisfied that at least one person could see me, not through me. He sighs, looking away from my eyes but then he looked down at my arm, and the least bit of it was out, ridden up by the sleeve, and the cuts I had made earlier were bleeding through the bandages, on display for him to see.

"Shit." I hurriedly moved my arm from where I was holding his shoulder. "Sorry," 

"Wait, Bright. What happened?" His brows were furrowed, he was beyond confused.

"You know me, I'm just . . . always being reckless and fucking up something." I tried to laugh but it sounded nervous. 

"No, seriously, just let me see. I want to help." I swallowed down the scream that wanted to erupt from just that sentence. 

"No, I told you, I'm okay. I promise I am." It didn't sound very convincing, and Gil wasn't backing down. 

"Bright. Let me see your arm. At least let me re-bandage it." I pressed down hard on my sleeve to try and stop the steady flow, but a part of me wanted more damage. To let me just bleed out right here on this floor, and that thought really made me shiver.

Before I could say anything to him, JT busted in with a manila colored case file in hand, like a goddamn injection to my veins but I had built a tolerance now. Its not as strong. JT looks between us suspiciously, and doesn't bother to apologize as he explains what he's got for Gil.  
"Vic is 22, colored hair, she's tatted and has a kid. She was majoring in psychology before the murder was staged to look like a suicide attempt." I looked at him with curiosity. He was so straight-forward, one of the many things I really enjoyed about JT.

"How do we know it wasn't a suicide?" Gil took the folder from him, glanced at the inside and looked at me. I swear he could feel my growing interest. He sighed as he handed it to me.

"Edrisa is saying that she was raped, and she had multiple bruises around her ankles and wrists, indicating she was bound." 

I looked through her file quickly, where she went to high school, who the kid's father was, and what she did to get custody of him. She had a long history of mental illness in her family, including herself. She was clinically diagnosed with bi-polar manic disorder, derealization disorder, and complex PTSD. Hospitalized quite a few times when she was a teenager, and once as an official adult. 

"We willing to look into it? Crime scene is active right now." JT spoke up after a few seconds of comforting silence. I nodded at Gil when I looked back up. 

"Yeah, give us five. I need to speak with Bright." JT nodded once and shut the door as he walked out. I put the manila folder down and looked at him expectantly, like he wasn't just about to find out that I self harmed a minute ago.

"What is going on? You never tell me the whole truth. Ever. And I feel like I did something wrong sometimes. Its like you never want to talk to me anymore about anything, when I'm the number one person who wants to hear about it." My façade of acting normal diminished completely when he said this, and I frowned at him. 

"I'm sorry . . . I just feel like these are my own issues to sort out. I feel like I'll just put weight on people if I involve them. Including you . . . especially you. You were always there when I was a child, for everything he wasn't here for, but . . . now that I'm older . . . now it's my responsibility to handle it."

"Malcolm . . . you don't have to handle your problems alone just because you're an adult. You're not adding weight to me, if anything, you're lessening it because when you talk about it I know that you're somewhat dealing with it. I'll always be here, whether your 10 . . . or 80. Okay?" That was something I genuinely needed to hear, even though my illogical brain is telling me that everything he just said was complete and utter lies.

"Thank you, Gil. Really. You have no idea how much I appreciate you." He responded with his big goofy grin that I remembered from childhood. 

"Oh shut up, you sappy sack of shit, I love you too. Now let's go solve this case, yeah?" This time, his hand was on my shoulder. 

"Yeah." I gave a small smile back. "Lets solve a case."


End file.
